


To Live or Die by Your Hand

by Sweet_garlic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 40 years later, Angst, Death is Madame Tracy, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, They need to talk about FEELINGS, and BAD COMMUNICATION, fixing an unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweet_garlic/pseuds/Sweet_garlic
Summary: It’s 40 years after Armagedidn’t, and Crowley and Aziraphale have grown apart. With the second Apocalypse coming, can Aziraphale convince Crowley to help?





	To Live or Die by Your Hand

In the end, Crowley was right. Forty years after Armagedidn’t, Heaven and Hell were chomping at the bit, holy and unholy mouths foaming to destroy the completely human world that refused to bend to either of their wills.

“Are you sure Agnes never prophesied anything about the second Apocalypse? No tips? Helpful hints?” Aziraphale asked anxiously, accepting a cup of tea from Newt’s wrinkled hands.

Anathema pulled her long gray hair into a bun, sharing a glance with her husband. “Not that we know of,” she said shortly. “I wasn’t able to find anything in the Nice and Accurates, and she never prophesied anything else.” Aziraphale was an angel, so of course he knew she was lying, but he didn’t press. “If it wasn’t for Madame Tracy, we wouldn’t even know this was coming.”

Madame Tracy had predicted the second Apocalypse about a week earlier. Shadwell’s ghost had overheard angels discussing war plans, and then told Tracy that she ought to come and see him for real rather than using unholy magicks to summon him. She did so shortly after passing his message onto Aziraphale, and was buried outside their cottage by the sea.

And now Aziraphale, Adam, and the Device-Pulsifers were sitting in the Device-Pulsifer kitchen, having a cuppa and preparing for the end of the world.

“You don’t have the flaming sword anymore, do you?” Adam asked, scratching one hand idly on his greying pepper beard. He didn’t look particularly worried about the whole Apocalypse business - after all, they had survived it once before, hadn’t they? And this time, at least, he knew it was coming. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, could barely drink his tea for all his shaking. He had eleven years to prepare for the first Apocalypse, not to mention - well, never mind that.

“We- I sent the flaming sword back,” he said, not thinking about the last time he had given away his sword. “I suppose I could find some way to get it delivered again, ” he mused, staring at his tea (which had too much cream in it).

“How do we even prepare humanity to fight a bunch of celestial beings? Do we have to fight God, too?” Newt asked, nervous hands adjusting his glasses and his shirt in search of something to do.

Anathema took her husband’s hand in hers. “We’ll find a way. We always have.” Her thin lips curved into a smile that looked far more confident than she felt as she turned to Aziraphale. “Won’t we?”

Aziraphale’s brow was becoming slick with sweat. Adam’s level gaze, Newt’s worried glances, Anathema’s sure smile, all trusting him to find a way out. When had he become the leader of their raggedy band? Was it because he was the only celestial? He set his tea down.

“I need to think,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling, “and… and plan.”

And with that, he blinked away.

———

Crowley had taken a cue from Madame Tracy and Shadwell and moved to a whitewashed cottage on a rocky seaside cliff. His cottage was a half hour’s walk from the closest village, called Northern Lewell. There were 689 humans living in Northern Lewell, a post office, one café, and two mildly competing grocery stores that were open on alternating days. Most of the 689 humans noticed when the strange whip-thin man moved to the lonely cottage, and a large majority of those humans eventually realized that he hadn’t seemed to age in the forty-odd years he had lived there. But they also knew he only came into town three times a week to read the paper and buy himself a blueberry muffin (which he never ate anyways), and so they left him alone.

Besides his tri-weekly trips, Crowley avoided going into town. He had spent 6,000 years tempting humans, and he figured that enough was enough. Besides, what was the point of wily tempting if there was nobody around to do any thwarting? 

After Armagedidn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale had spent more time together than ever before. They finally had a picnic, ate at every restaurant in London, taken dancing classes, and spent night after night next to each other, drunk and giggling. Crowley’s plants began appearing in the apartment above the shop. Aziraphale began leaving his books at Crowley’s flat.

Crowley had begun to smell like Aziraphale’s cologne.

Crowley grit his teeth, spidery hands tightening on the neck of the bottle as he sat alone in his bare cottage; all the whiskey in the world couldn’t wash away the smell of Aziraphale, the taste of his kiss.

The alcohol burned like holy water on its trip down Crowley’s throat. Clouds sat fat and heavy in the sky outside, dulling the world, while the sea clawed incessantly at the edge of the cliffs. If he waited here for six thousand more years, Crowley wondered, would it be long enough for the cliffs to fall away and the sea to swallow him whole?

He scoffed at himself. Nothing had changed between him and Aziraphale after six thousand years, even with an Almostgeddon. Why would the sea treat him any differently?

The muscles in Crowley’s shoulders were knit tight, and he considered going out to the garden. It wasn’t anything impressive; he had stopped screaming at his plants years ago, and allowed them to happily grow in a tangled mess. He used his crop to make pastas and soups that existed only to sit on the counter all night, getting cold and giving Crowley a dish to wash in the morning so that he didn’t spend all day in bed. Those were never good days.

Crowley’s joints creaked when he stood up; his unholy essence ached, soaked to the ethereal bone with the sadness he had wallowed in for forty years. It was impossible, but it felt like he had aged. Every glance in the mirror revealed another wrinkle, his eyes another shade duller over the rim of his glasses. Crowley took another long swig of drink. Perhaps, tonight, he would be able to blackout and forget everything, rather than just remembering.

Fat chance.

Crowley stumbled to the door of his cottage, shouldering wooden door open. He was greeted by the flat sky, the clawing sea, the grass.

And the face of his angel.

Aziraphale, that is. Not his angel, hadn’t been his angel for decades, not that Crowley’s brain bothered to remember. All he could do was stare at those sad blue eyes, so much lighter than the sea that Crowley had watched for forty years, and try not to throw his arms around Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley was transported back to Paris. He had been Aziraphale’s savior then, and in the Blitz, and at Armagedidn’t, and every time Aziraphale found a stain or a broken teacup. For almost six thousand years, Crowley would have done anything for Aziraphale at a pleading word and a flutter of eyelashes.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley replied, and slammed the door.

“Wait!” the angel yelped, scrabbling at the dark wood. “Crowley, it’s important, I swear! Please, just open the door, I promise it’s worth your while!”

On the other side of the door, Crowley was not listening. He leaned back against the wood, the heel of his palms pressed into his eyes until he saw nothing but static. He could barely stand on his own. Fuck, he was too drunk for this — the first time anyone came by for forty years, and he was pissed. His limbs shook with the effort of sobering up, out of practice as he was. He tried to ignore that shaking was a common symptom in alcoholic humans, and steeled himself to open the door. His sunglasses became armor as he slipped them on and turned to greet Aziraphale.

The angel’s hands were raised to knock again, his face a picture of anxiety that warped into an overly friendly smile as soon as he saw Crowley. His eyes were worried, though, and growing more so as he noticed the haggard lines and stubble on Crowley’s face.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I should’ve started with that, shouldn’t I have?”

Crowley gave a noncommittal grunt, not trusting himself to speak after seeing that smile, even guarded, for the first time in forty years.

Realizing that Crowley wasn’t going to give him anything else to work with, Aziraphale barreled on. “Yes, well, I have news. I thought you would want to hear it, or at least that you should hear it, and then… well. I suppose I should let you know.”

Crowley stepped forward onto the stoop, farther into Aziraphale’s space than he had anticipated, but decided he liked watching Aziraphale stumble backwards as if away from a dangerous animal. It was a comfortable feeling, being feared, being reviled, even if it made him sick to his stomach. Or maybe that was the sobriety. The door closed heavily behind him, and it sounded something like an ending.

“The garden,” was all Crowley said, and shoved past Aziraphale to lead him to the patch of herbs and root vegetables with a small path and a bench in the middle.

Crowley sat heavily on the bench, and didn’t bother to look and see if Aziraphale sat beside him.

Of course he did, and he did so the way he did everything: primly, delicately, more than a little nervous. He didn’t bother to mention how the mossy bench would be staining his khakis. Why mention it if Crowley wouldn’t fix it for him afterwards?

“So,” Crowley grunted, “News.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, “Well, um, let’s see… Anathema is aging.”

Crowley didn’t turn to look at Aziraphale like the angel had said something incredibly stupid, but Aziraphale knew by the furrow of his brow that he thought the angel had said something incredibly stupid. He was right, Azirpahale knew, but he couldn’t help but barrel on.

“Her hair is almost all grey, can you believe it? And Newt is the same. They’re married now, of course. And Adam is such the man! He hasn’t found anyone for himself, but I can’t blame him - bit difficult when you’re not quite human, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s shoulders tensed at the last comment, but he continued to sit in stoic silence.

Aziraphale’s voice softened. “Tracy is gone. Shadwell went first, but she… she only died a few weeks ago.” He steeled himself, trying not to tremble as he spoke. “She’s buried outside their cottage. Not unlike this one, it is. We had a nice little ceremony for her, Anathema, Newt, Adam, myself, and Pepper was able to make it back from Asia for a visit. She’s been traveling abroad. Quite a remarkable woman.” Aziraphale was delaying the inevitable. He swiped at the tears beginning on his eyes. “Tracy and Shadwell are going to meet again. I’m sure of it.”

Crowley didn’t speak for a long time. Aziraphale didn’t blame him. Neither of them had had many human friends, for precisely the reason they were facing now, and Aziraphale knew that the death of Madame Tracy would hit hard. There had been a reason celestial beings preferred their own company, once.

“Is that it?” Crowley asked, his voice rough. When Aziraphale turned to him, his mouth had formed an even deeper frown. Aziraphale opened his mouth to continue, but Crowley shut him up before he could begin.

“What, family business and a death notice? You could have just sent an obit. Christmas card, maybe,” he sniped bitterly. He turned his face away, glaring at the beets (which didn’t shake in fear). Aziraphale’s shocked silence was immensely satisfying. He was ready to writhe wickedly in it for a few more moments, maybe even have the chance to drink in an awkward stutter, but nothing prepared him for Aziraphale’s next words.

“The Apocalypse is coming,” the angel stated. Crowley looked at him for the first time since entering the garden. Aziraphale’s face betrayed nothing. “You were right,” he continued, “Heaven and Hell are ready for another war, and this time against humanity. Madame Tracy prophesied it. They were her last words.” He sniffed. “We weren’t going to put that in the obituary.”

Crowley stared in shocked silence for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “Alright, then,” he said finally, jaw snapping closed. “Thanks for letting me know.”

And he headed back to the cottage.

Crowley heard Aziraphale swear softly behind him as he scrambled to follow. He didn’t wait for him, or turn to look.

“Crowley, stop,” Aziraphale begged. “Humanity needs you!” he said, fingers grasping for the hem of Crowley’s jacket.

Crowley spun around, snarling. “Oh, humanity will be fine without me,” he hissed, “Don’t they have their heavenly savior to keep them safe? They don’t need me - I’m the demon! Don’t they hate me?” He scoffed, shaking Aziraphale’s hands away. “They don’t need me.” He turned away, ready to leave Aziraphale out in the cold at the mercy of the sea.

“Maybe _I_ need you,” Aziraphale cried. Crowley stopped. Oh, to hear those words. After six thousand years, all it took was the promise of another Apocalypse and Crowley turning his back?

Crowley looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale. The angel stood, a bright spot against the cloudy sky and stormy seas, wringing his manicured hands. Crowley had seen the expression on his face before: his eyebrows turned up, his mouth pinched into a sour line, his sad eyes pleading silently. And Crowley knew the expression that would follow if he did what Aziraphale wanted: a smile. Forty years ago, he would have held up the world to see that smile. But he wasn’t who he was forty years ago.

“It’s too late,” he said, walking towards the cottage once more. He almost tacked “angel” onto the end of the phrase.

Almost.

“Wait - oh, Crowley, _please_ , I’m begging you —”

“Ha!” Crowley said, still heading inside. “You’re not begging,” he laughed bitterly, “You’re doing the same thing you’ve always done! You’re doing those puppy eyes, fluttering your lashes at me, waiting for me to do some minor miracle or fuck all so you can smile and say thank you.” Crowley stopped in the open doorway, turning back to Aziraphale.

“And I went along with it for six thousand years,” he said. “Six _thousand_ years, Aziraphale, and I thought it would all change after the Apocalypse.” He scoffed. “But I was a fool.”

Aziraphale stood still. His eyes pleaded, his hands were anxious to reach out, doing everything to ask for help without actually asking. 

“I loved you for six thousand years,” Crowley whispered, his voice shaking, “and you still can’t even say out loud that you _like_ me.”

Aziraphale walked forward guiltily, eventually stepping into Crowley’s space. Crowley did not step back.

“I do like you,” Aziraphale said softly, “Of course I do. I figured you knew, even if I couldn’t…” His guilty eyes searched Crowley’s face. “Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, “I love you. You’re my best friend, you’re,” he stopped, searching for words, “you’re the only person who understands me. You're the only person I've ever loved, _real_ love, not just that divine nonsense.” Shaking angelic fingers reached up to slip the dark glasses off of Crowley’s face. Aziraphale gasped at seeing the sadness in Crowley’s golden eyes. 

“I love you, Crowley. And I can’t do this without you.” He huffed a laugh. “I don’t want to do _anything_ without you. When you left, forty years ago, I thought you might be off for another nap, but then you didn’t say anything, and you moved… I thought we were done for forever. Maybe now we can make it better?.”

Aziraphale smiled hesitantly, moving his hands up to cup Crowley’s face. Crowley did not smile.

“It’s not going to be so easy, angel,” he said, tears threatening to break through. “I can’t - I don’t - I need to trust you again, I thought you were using me, I thought you didn’t care - I need —”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Oh, Crowley,” he whispered, “oh my dear, my love. I love you, and I won’t stop saying it until you believe it.” He wanted to kiss Crowley, he did.

But he couldn’t go too fast.

So he held his demon, pulling him close, pressed cheek to cheek and chest to chest as if Aziraphale could send all his love through their contact. He held Crowley as he cried, as he shook apart, trying to understand that he was loved but still not quite grasping it.

Aziraphale was willing to wait.

Eventually Crowley pulled back, wiping away tears. He sniffed, trying to appear like he hadn’t just been crying in his best friend’s arms. Aziraphale swiped one teardrop off of Crowley’s jaw with his thumb, smiling softly at Crowley with divine love. Crowley’s grim face sent love right back, the reluctant kind found in the eyes of a spooked horse.

“Cuppa?” he offered, his voice rough. It wasn’t the Ritz, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have taken anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale likes his tea with more sugar than cream, and Crowley knows this. Newt did not get Aziraphale’s tea right. Crowley will get Aziraphale’s tea right. I might continue this into a series with them getting artifacts to stop Apocalypse #2, but idk???
> 
> Also, I wrote this listening to “Arms Unfolding” by dodie. Listen to it and have feeeeeelings.


End file.
